Subject #419

         If I told you—could convince you that what I saw was what I saw, you’d label me a madman.
         I’ve been there before; I’ll never go back—the unblemished walls, the acrid air, the stained bed sheets. Crimson stained bed sheets—terror soaked, drenched with nightmares. I won’t go back.
         If I told you that it screeched—howled, bit and clawed outside my door—if I told you, you wouldn’t hear it—see it. That thing. That horrible thing—mangy, its neck limp, bones—crushed.
         It came by the fourth night—it came with the rain. I heard it cry through the ventilation duct, like a wailing, vengeful wind sent to spite my quiet sleep. Terrible cries—bloody, painful woe.
         By the fourth night I was able to gain an unusual moment of serenity. The pitter-patter on the window bars resounded a song of peacefulness across my sweaty brow. I quickly succumbed to its melody, falling into a deep, dreamless comatose. I remember exactly the moment before my eyes closed—the walls shone white and brilliant under pure fluorescent stars—the round moon flashed from somewhere far beyond my trifling cell. I slipped down into darkness—I earned my long-deserved respite.
         When the sound aroused me I know not. I must have slept long into the night for my stomach panged with yearning. I called out for a nurse, but no one answered. I cried out again—an unfamiliar voice echoed back from the long white hallway. An evil utterance—evil omen. Then the shrieks began.
         They were at first dull, nearly inaudible whines. The hard, empty walls amplified their terrifying tone. My head rang as the terrific groans intensified, growing into shrill daggers, piercing my ears. I clutched my brain—inescapable. Trapped! I was trapped. The walls quivered. Blindness—I was blind. The rain blew through the window, soaking my face, my hair.
         I threw my hands against the door. Its cold, faceless window was petrified with steam—I wiped it clean. The evil resonated still, screeching about my quarters. I peeked through my soaked, coal-black curls, only to find an unfamiliar face looking back. A malicious inky mustache—venomous—dangled from the man’s petty upper lip. He wore a seemingly innocent smirk and his seedy eyes sunk deep into their abyssal sockets.
         I tried to blink the evil away. I dreamed—I hoped. I clawed at his face—the beast appeared—all black but for a vague shadow of purity, burned into its fur just above the right shoulder blade. Mad—I was not mad, through my sopping hair a saw the creature lunge. Back I fell, crawling toward the window. The slimy floor squished between my fingers. The back of my head throbbed—warmth trickled down my neck. Blackness.
         I would not say that I am mad—no not mad.